


The Complete and Willing Submission of Pierre Bezukhov

by MrSpears



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub, Dominance, I Don't Even Know, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral, Pleading, Power Play, Sexual Tension, Submission, Unresolved Emotional Tension, jsfoijsdiofjioajose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 12:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16810969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/MrSpears
Summary: It has been so long since Pierre has seen Andrei, his old dom. Since his new relationship with Anatole Kuragin has been blossoming, what will Andrei have to say?





	The Complete and Willing Submission of Pierre Bezukhov

The sun worshipped every inch of Andrei Bolkonsky, edging him in gold with all the splendor of a saint. The shadows from his position resting at just the corner of the window played off every line and crease. A portrait of magnificent dignity as vivid and gorgeous in tone as if he had been rendered in oils. Pierre knew he was staring and by God, he could not help it. There were things about Andrei he could never forget. Salacious things. Blunt, hard nails and a firm, unforgiving hand. Soft skin and sharp hips and that wicked, vicious smile. Andrei carried himself so solemnly and with such dignity that when he smiled it was startling; by its very nature an unnatural occurrence and so malignant, so taunting, that it pulled his stern mouth into a cherry red line like an open, bloodied gash. He was a different man behind a closed door; a demon once his uniform was unbuttoned. 

And yet for all his abiding, tactile memories…Pierre seemed to discover something new about his friend every time he saw him. In this case, in the low lighting, he realized how much Andrei looked like his father. It was not a flattering or particularly pleasant realization, but one that could not be missed – or ignored, if one was to take into account the old prince’s madness. And to see how deeply it was burrowed in Andrei’s own steel gaze – cool glass reflecting the visage of a beast. When he turned his head to Pierre, the moment had passed and the gleam was gone. It all happened so quickly that Pierre doubted what he had seen. 

“My old friend,” Andrei’s voice was warm, and it ambled across the room with the leisurely pace of a gentleman’s drawl. “It is so good to see you.” 

Pierre’s heart was a trapped bird in his ribcage. The way it fluttered and banged against its prison walls made his entire chest ache. He stepped closer to his friend, his own lips parted but no words stumbling out. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing that sounded clever in the privacy of his own skull. 

“It is good to see you also,” he finally managed, the words coming out breathy and heady. “You look well.” 

He did. War agreed with Andrei. It made his hands a little rougher, his face a little leaner. It did nothing but fine-tune what was already there; a chisel chipping away at a complete Adonis. 

His own excesses, his own disgusting behaviors and decadent indulgences that wreaked havoc on his body, that ruined his mind and made him into a stuttering, clumsy fool left Pierre flushed and ashamed. He was not worthy of standing in the presence of the prince. He thought, for only a moment, that he should fall down at Andrei’s feet and kiss his heels for the privilege of being allowed to cast a level gaze, as an equal. To behold something so magnificent and regard it with anything less than adulation was at best, a sin… 

“As do you.” Andrei’s tone maintained its even pace. He took a step towards the window, the sunlight casting full radiance on his face. Pierre had to look away, unable to bear the full handsome glory; his stomach trembling as violently as his knees. 

Pierre swallowed hard, racking his brain for something else to say. Anything, anything…nothing was coming to surface. Andrei pulled the white curtain closed, casting the entire room in a hazy, warm sort of darkness. He glanced over Pierre’s shoulder to make certain the door was closed and then his own, eyes like a falcon that flitted towards every corner. No servants, no spying eyes. They were entirely alone. 

“Do you have any idea what you have done, Petia?” 

There it was. Pierre fought against visibly cringing, against shrinking in on himself until he allowed his shame to eat him alive. Coming from anyone else, the words would have been flash powder, igniting his temper. He pushed it down, swallowed it often enough that when it bubbled, it overflowed, scalded everyone around him. With Andrei, it had always been different. It had always been…

Belatedly, humiliation was overtaken by dread. Fear. What exactly did Andrei know, and how did he…? 

“I have done a great many things,” Pierre admitted, finally straightening up so he could at least bear the impending verbal lashing with some scrap of dignity. “Nothing very much at all worthy of any notice.” 

“Nothing you do goes without notice.” Andrei reminded him sharply. “You are Count Bezukhov. If you so much as have a button loose on your waistcoat the world will whisper about it; so what do you think the world is saying about you and Anatole Kuragin?” 

Another deep breath. If Pierre could only just keep breathing. “What do they say?” 

“I told you,” Andrei’s voice dropped like a stone, “to stay away from him.” 

“He is my brother-in-law,” Pierre supplied feebly. 

Andrei moved closer. His leather boots creaked with each solid step. He kept moving until he was only an inch or so away from Pierre, close enough that Pierre could feel the heat of the day on his wool vest – smell the musk of his perfume and his skin. 

_“S’agenouiller.”_ The French slipped quickly, gracefully off his tongue. A single command. Pierre’s body responded faster than his brain. Automatic, he dropped down to his knees, lowering his head and shoving his hands behind his back. His heart was hammering, still, faster with each passing second. 

“You are too weak to resist him.” The prince said austerely. “Anatole and his sister, both. You have invited devils into your bed.” 

And what a lush Hell he suffered for. “I should think it would stay empty, otherwise.” 

The accusation did not even land. Not that Pierre ever expected Andrei to have one regret about leaving to fight and die. If not for his wife, then least for… 

“Are you finished with me?” The silence rested too heavily on his chest, weighing down on him like slate. Andrei could crush him with such silence; the absence of his letters and the weight of abandonment already bearing down on Pierre’s wide shoulders. 

“I could be,” Andrei said with a decided note. “I would be within my rights. I could be finished with you and drive you to ruin.” 

As if Pierre had not done enough to plunge himself into ruin. He rubbed his face, one big hand sweeping up and then dragging his thumb over his bottom lip. “What can you reveal that is not already…?” Realization and horror. Andrei didn’t even have to say it; Pierre knew what accursed blackmail was brewing at the base of his throat.

God, that smile. 

“My letters,” Pierre moaned. Oh, what adulations and drunk, raving confession he had poured, hot-faced and fervent, into those letters. He was mad, foolish in his youth. If such letters ever saw light beyond the drawer in Andrei’s desk…

“What is even more damning than your letters, Petia.” Andrei said. “There was a contract that you signed with me. Do you not remember?” 

There it was. If Andrei had fired a pistol into Pierre’s gut, less of him would have spilled out. “That contract is not binding!” 

“And how is it not?” Measured. A stormy breeze sliding over the choppy waves of a raging sea. “It states explicit terms and has your name, your signature. Pyotr Kirrilovich or Count Pierre Bezukhov, it makes no difference. You can could fight me on the matter, but that would only expose you to society.” 

“I have never cared for society, or what it thinks of me.” Pierre countered. 

“You have a point,” Andrei acquiesced, “but I do, as well. Moscow is teeming with vultures who would be all too eager to pick at your corpse. They will tear down your house at the first opportunity, every one of them fighting to become the next Count Bezukhov. And what will be left of you then, my dear friend, for anyone to love?”

A ball of shame burned in his gut. Pierre, already on his knees, wished he could press his face against the floor and weep. Although he knew better than to shed tears in front of Andrei. It would only earn him disdain and not a drop of pity.

The contract. It was a single, damning piece of paper drawn up one amatory night. Three days they had spent together – three days Pierre, only Pyotr then, would never forget. The bastard son who was completely enamored of his cold, elegant prince. There had been no Natasha, then. No Anatole, Helene, or even Lise. But there was Andrei, with his dark chestnut hair, perfumed and naturally curly. His cool blue eyes, so blue they were almost silver, and his long legs, his straight nose. And how was Pierre to resist him, then, when Andrei was wearing so little by way of clothing? His elegant dressing gown was all that separated them; heavy velvet and brocade with fur along the collar. It draped over his frame, gaping open at the chest and exposing a deep line of collarbone. His cuff swept across the desk as he drew his pen across the paper, a single fluid motion and crisp, dark lines that would seal Pierre’s fate. 

_“I am not certain I understand what it means.” Pierre drank deeply from his cup. The wine warmed him from the inside out, and his hand rested on Andrei’s shoulder. A liberty, one he only recently dared to take._

_“It means that you belong to me.” Andrei did not mince words. “You will give yourself to me completely, as you do in bed, but always. You will act at my behest. Do you not wish to belong to me, Petia?”_

_“Yes,” agreeance spoken without hesitation. “Yes, yes, Andrei. I want to belong to you. Always, and unto eternity, I want to be yours completely.”_

“I want this to end.” Pierre’s voice was hoarse, the depths of his pain visibly straining every nerve. “I cannot be a part of this any longer, Andrei. Do as you will. Ruin me, if it brings you satisfaction. But I cannot continue, I cannot.” He licked his lips, adding meekly, “please. Be my friend, Andrei. Please, one final favor. Release me.” 

Silence found them again, swallowing Pierre’s helpless pleas. It tightened the band of tension between them, pulled as taut as the line of Andrei’s lips, which fought against that deeply unnatural expression that so mimicked mirth. 

Less a smile, more a baring of teeth – but they gleamed even in the muted sunlight as the prince raised his head and laughed. It bubbled out of his chest with the musicality of broken glass, sharp and wretched and cruel. 

“Forgive me, my old friend.” Andrei finally quelled himself enough to say. “I do not mean to laugh at you. But it is an absurd bit of theatre you put yourself through, for what we both know will be the inevitable end.” 

Pierre spread his hands in a helpless question. 

“You came as soon as I bid.” Andrei said. “You knelt on my command. You say you want out, Pyotr, but your responses are second nature.” 

Pierre swallowed down the bile that rose up his throat. He had no ill associations with the name he had been given. But it seemed, coming from Andrei, so sullied and wrong…

That solemn expression was back. He wore it so well; like that elegant housecoat. Even now, fully dressed in an exquisitely tailored blue jacket with a swathe of white silk wrapped around his throat, he was as good as naked. Pierre could not see him any other way. It made his mouth dry, his hands shake. 

Andrei raised his hand, beckoning with long and elegant fingers. Pierre hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He was already on his knees, and he had not been told to rise. Should he stand, and stride towards Andrei defiantly as an equal? Or should he maintain his role, the very one he had denounced only moments before? Before he could make up his mind fully, Pierre found himself pressing his hands against the floor, turning their fleshy heels against the cold tile. He pulled his body forward, shoulders slumping as he crawled towards the prince. Stray beams of sunlight glinted off the tops of Andrei’s black boots, Pierre’s shadow eclipsing them when he touched the very tips. He leaned over, glancing upward for a command. Andrei gave a slight incline of his chin, and it was good enough for Pierre. He dropped his head, kissing the tops of Andrei’s boots, his breath fogging up the pristine, expensive leather. Inwardly, he cringed at his own ability to ruin everything his lips ever touched.

Andrei’s fingers fell to his trousers, trailing over the expensive gold buttons. Pierre lifted his own shaking, sweating hands to take over the process from him, sliding the buttons through the slim notches in the fine fabric. The trousers came undone, and he peeled them down Andrei’s sharp hips. He pulled free the shirt fabric, parting it away from the warm, creamy skin. He slid his hand into the warm split between straight, muscular thighs, which parted just enough to allow Pierre’s fingers to work their way through. Andrei’s cock was not completely erect, but it was getting thicker, harder, standing up a little straighter with each passing second. Pierre kissed the head, running his tongue over the flushed tip. He started stroking down the length, Andrei’s foreskin as supple as satin underneath the pressure of his mouth.

Andrei closed his eyes, resting his hand on top of Pierre’s head. Pierre pushed himself closer, resting his hands on the prince’s hips. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, ready to take in more, but Andrei stopped him. His hand came to rest against Pierre’s forehead, pushing him back with a gentle but insistent strength.

“That is enough for now.” The prince said. Pierre could only look up at him, completely lost. His hands were still shaking, his forehead beaded with sweat. Suddenly, it was so warm in the room.

“I don’t…” Pierre did not understand. He had done exactly as he had been bid, at least he thought, but now Andrei was, and he…

“I have an appointment.” Andrei stroked the soft curve of Pierre’s cheek, trailing down to his jaw. “Do not look so despondent. I will still be here, Petia. You may come to me soon.” 

“When?” Pierre dared to ask, his voice trembling as he flicked his tongue over his bottom lip. 

Andrei did not have an answer for that. He went to button his trousers, fingers working quickly, before straightening his jacket and coming to rest, again, on the top of Pierre’s head. 

“I will see you again, soon.” One last smile. Shallow, insincere, entirely artificial and entirely Andrei. “It is good to see you as always, my old friend.” 

And then he left. Stepping around Pierre, not even waiting for him to rise, and making his exit. His heels struck the tile and punctuated his disdain. Pierre waited, slumped over on the floor, humiliation churning in his stomach and the salty, musky taste of abandonment in his mouth.


End file.
